


Guide My Hand

by DragonRider1



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Fantasy Religion, Gen, Other, Religious Conflict
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-03
Updated: 2018-05-03
Packaged: 2019-05-01 20:10:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14528247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DragonRider1/pseuds/DragonRider1
Summary: "Did you know Varric is Andrastian? Oh, he blasphemes with every second breath. But deep down, he believes. His heart is virtuous. But he would never step foot in a Chantry. It should be the first place to which the virtuous turn."Only Implied Varric/Hawke.





	Guide My Hand

**Author's Note:**

  * For [joufancyhuh](https://archiveofourown.org/users/joufancyhuh/gifts).



> I didn't know whether to tag this as Hawke/Varric or not, since there is nothing to really say it is...BUT my friend/beta reader thought it sounded like Varric missed Hawke as more than a friend. So I tagged just to be safe.
> 
> Alternatively, I didn't specify Hawke's gender, because again it is never really mention. But my recipient wanted Female Hawke/Varric, so that is what I was going on when I wrote this.

Varric still remembered the meaningless talks he’d get when he was younger. His deceased father would go on and on about the ancestors like they were Gods. Men, women, and dwarven folk who were as old as dirt; old enough to have joined it before he was even a thought. Paragons who came up with such advancements as throwing one’s shit into lava, oh how Bartrand could talk incessantly for days about that one. How both his brother and father would turn on him, on how he should respect them and look up to them. To regret and mourn, never having even the chance to be one. 

And then there was Stone Sense, his _favorite_ topic when it came to being a genuine dwarf. His brother and father would speak about the feel of rock above your head, to experience it vibrating in your ears, and in your blood. Thank the Maker the only stone he had above his head was the headboard of his bed, back **home** in the Hanged Man. And the only sense he had was of the common kind. 

He supposes it’d be the responsible, younger son thing to experience the loss somewhere. Not knowing what Stone Sense is or how it feels. Not giving two shits and a shake about which Paragon created the Nug Grinder; or lacking the ability to recognize an underhanded politician instantly by the length of their beard. He should mourn at his lost place among Orzammar’s merchant caste, as he clutches onto the ancient plates of his long, long-lost family. Doing the same kind of grieving Bartrand had insisted on. But he doesn’t and maybe that makes him a terrible son and horrid brother...maybe that’s why him and Bartrand were destined to never be more than acquaintances, business partners at best. 

He was a surfacer. Never having known the embrace of The Stone and never wanting to. Someone who lived under the sky since they first opened their eyes, laughing at Bartrand’s fear of falling up into it. When he spent his entire life knowing his feet belonged here, above ground. 

As such, he never appealed for help from The Stone or guidance from the Ancestors. It seemed foolish to talk to something that had exiled you completely. Something inanimate and Dead. Do the dead even listen? Well unless you’re in Nevarra, he supposed. Creepy bastards. 

And maybe he angered his father in not believing in it, not seeing or hearing it. Maybe he lost his brother because he was born an enemy, a Cloudgazer and an insult, an example of what they lost. Maybe he...maybe he was a disappointment to his mother too. Even in the bitter end, sitting by her bedside as she simply wasted away on lost glory as well. Sorry Mother… 

But The Stone never called to him. Although he supposes the Maker never did either, just as stubborn and absent. The Maker simply felt...realer to him than a piece of omniscient rock. It could have been the allure of a good story though, some people say he's got a soft spot for that kinda thing. 

_"An all-knowing, infinite God steals the beautiful bride of a mortal man, ends slavery through her, and in a whirlwind of passion and betrayal loses her. His grief and sheer pettiness causing him to condemn all kind, turning his back on them for eternity once more.”_

Perhaps it was more logical to him, or easier. Simply drop a silver in the tithe box every now and then, and hope the Maker looks towards you once again. Or towards anyone really. It was a strangely comforting thought, having a God who expected nothing good from you. If the Maker condemned all already, how do you disappoint him further? Not like how he disappointed everyone else, who had such high hopes for him: mother, father, Bartrand, the third cousin twice removed, and the second cousin thrice removed. No one to disappoint when the Maker already expected less than nothing, and you could only grow from there in his eyes. 

So being Andrastian...it just seemed better than a stone. You didn’t have to talk about it, fawn over it, miss it. You barely had to respect it, as long as you knew it was there. And shit was it there. 

How else could you explain the lucky bastard who dropped out the Fade, hand glowing? Accused and imprisoned, only to gain the benefit of the doubt from the Snappiest Seeker who ever seeked. Sure, it was spirits or demons or whatever shit passed for divine intervention these days; but according to those half-listened to sermons from Choir Boy, the Maker worked in mysterious ways. Someone had to be pulling the strings for the Inquisitor to have hand and heart intact. Pull one divine miracle out your ass and it might be a coincidence; pluck a string of miracles and an archdemon out and there is not a doubt someone is working behind the scenes. 

The Inquisitor had their own ideas; their own beliefs of what had happened to them. Varric had no doubt in his mind, this was the work of a higher being and seeing how the Maker was the closest one to that in this day and age. This is where he was. 

Which is why _This_ is where he was. 

Varric folds his hands in his lap, sighing heavily and peering up at the statue of Andraste. The small chapel fairly well kept, despite being out of the way. It was probably Curly’s work, given the bedroll tucked behind the statue and almost out of sight. 

He hadn't planned to end up here this morning, but...The Maker, Andraste, some demony spirit wearing the face of the Divine, whatever higher power responsible for the weird shit in these darkened days pulled the Inquisitor from the Fade. And well...shit. 

They left Hawke behind. 

If whatever force was out there could do it once, why not again? Hawke didn’t need a glowy hand; to redeem the world; or any of the extra, Chosen bullshit. Just--to get out of the Fade. That wasn’t too much, right? Damn...how did it go again? 

_Maker hear my cry_ or whatever, as if the cry of a dwarf is something the Maker would take in consideration. Let Varric Tethras, be the one to return the Maker’s gaze as he sits here… Just… 

Let Hawke be safe… please. Let Hawke walk out of the Fade, whole. Or roll out like a pudding, Void he’ll take a limp. Not like Hawke doesn’t need to be taken down a peg anyways. All he wants is Hawke back, he...needs Hawke back. 

Varric jolts at the cold drip onto his hands. Damn ceiling… with those wet, empty rooms above. He covers his face with his hand, the other clenching into a fist and his shoulders tremble. 

Maker Dammit. Maker’s Balls. Maker? 

**Fuck Him.**

The Stone is deaf, the Maker is blind, and Hawke... 

_Oh Maker. Hear my cry._

For I only have you left...and I desire nothing less.


End file.
